


Settle It Like Men

by nookienostradamus



Series: The Hearts of Men [1]
Category: The Alienist (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Bickering, Blood, Boxing, Drunkenness, Emotional Constipation, Fisticuffs, Flashbacks, Forgiveness, Friendship, Frustration, Guns, Injury, John and Laszlo Get Testosterone Poisoning, Laszlo's Sense of Humor Rises From the Grave, M/M, Mentions of Murder, Mentions of Prostitution, Mentions of past child abuse, Repression, Unacknowledged Desire, Victorian Slang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-27 00:38:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13869369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nookienostradamus/pseuds/nookienostradamus
Summary: 1896: The case of the New York child-killer is putting a strain on all involved in the investigation. A spring night finds John Schuyler Moore and Laszlo Kreizler on a lonely rooftop in Manhattan's filthy Lower East Side. But the greatest threat to both men isn't the unknown murderer or the degenerates in the pleasure-house below—it's one another. As John reminisces about the event that cemented a friendship, long-kept secrets and shameful deeds come to light, and Laszlo's stubbornness and arrogance might just end up fracturing their bond forever.





	Settle It Like Men

**Author's Note:**

> I've played with the timeline, invented some things out of whole cloth, and smashed together the book and the show (no spoilers, however). God have mercy on my soul.

On a rooftop at Ludlow and Broome Streets—one of many crowded with chimneys and washing-lines and pigeon coops—John Schuyler Moore _itched_. He itched for a cigarette, and he itched far more literally inside his wool sack coat, which was too warm for the mild May night. He might have, he reflected, had a better grasp on the weather had he not been face-down in bed all day, taming a beast of a hangover.

The nausea had gone at last. The headache remained: some of it just behind his eyes, most of it in the form of the man beside him. It eased the pain a little to see Laszlo sitting on an overturned milk crate, no more pleased or hopeful for having been invited on the night’s stakeout. Cyrus was still laid up with an ugly head wound and it was Pentecost Eve.

The decision was made not long after their discovery of poor Rosie’s broken body at the foot of the Statue of Liberty to keep their vigil both Pentecost Eve and Pentecost Night. Laszlo and his “defect” had not been turned away this time, nor had Sara and her derringer.

So they sat, John mused, like damned _gargoyles_ over the ruckus below. Patrons entered and left the disorderly house—either satiated and staggering or tossed out into the street. At least he hadn’t had to sleep off last night’s whisky in the gutter amid runnels of piss like some of the poor sods down there would.

Finally, John shrugged off the coat. If it was left on the rooftop, so be it. Some tenement-dweller would have a nice find in the morning. Raking his nails over his arms and shoulders underneath the jacket felt incredible. But even his extravagant sigh of relief didn’t make Laszlo turn.

The Doctor was looking off toward the bridge construction, its huge grids of steel gray under the half moon. He sat with back straight, bad arm resting in his lap. Laszlo would often clutch it with his good hand when he sat, as if it might of its own accord fall or flail. He wasn’t one to suffer embarrassment gladly. But tonight, the stronger hand held a pistol, its grip balanced on his knee.

“I’ll wager if anyone sees action tonight, it’ll be Sara and Marcus,” John said in a stage whisper. “Lightning rarely strikes twice.”

At that, Laszlo looked over. “None of the teams is stationed at The Slide, which would be necessary for ‘lightning to strike twice,’ as you say. I might say that the probability of our killer paying us a visit would be much more easily calculated than would the likelihood of being struck by lightning.”

John made a show of rolling his eyes. “Dear God, Laszlo, but you can be a colossal bore sometimes.” His hand went on instinct to the inlaid cigarette case in his breast pocket.

Beside him, Laszlo said something he couldn’t make out.

“What’s that?”

“A joke, John. I made a joke. Not a very good one. Clearly, I haven’t got the practice at it that you do.”

For a moment, John stared at Laszlo’s profile, at the slightest of shadows cast by his patrician nose in the moonlight. Then he burst out laughing. A brawl that had heated up in the doorway below neatly covered the sound of it. “Well, then,” said John, regaining his composure, “I suppose coming on watch tonight has lightened your mood since last time.”

Laszlo squinted toward the horizon, the bridge. “I wouldn’t say that.”

John scrubbed at his chin, which needed a shave. “Lucius doesn’t know you well enough yet. He only meant to—that is, I believe _he_ believed he was looking after your welfare. Yours and Sara’s.”

A soft huff from Laszlo. “Hunting wolves will isolate the weakest animal. I know it isn’t—” a mirthless smile flitted over his lips “— _personal_.”

“You’re not weak, Laszlo.”

Another faint twist of his lip. For all of his stiff formality (John to this day could not tell how much of it was affected), the man could be petulant.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten having challenged Teddy to a boxing match,” John said, prodding Laszlo in the ribs with an elbow.

“ _You_ forget, John. I challenged Teddy to a duel. The bout was his concession.”

It wasn’t altogether untrue. Laszlo might have fared better against Roosevelt with a pistol. “All right, Aaron Burr. But it was hardly a mark of weakness to have gone ahead with the match.”

If John wasn’t mistaken, Laszlo’s face betrayed a hint of genuine fond remembrance. Oh, but he had _seethed_ until Teddy had walloped the ire right out of him.

 

*

 

_“You’re ready to have your face knocked sideways because Teddy made a case for_ free will _?” John asked. He was well into his third whisky, but still in no mood to see his friend humiliated for the sake of philosophy._

_Laszlo’s jaw was set tight. “This is not about William James.”_

_“Oh, Teddy likely doesn’t understand what he’s saying. He’s no scholar of the human condition.” That, of course, was a lie made to appease Laszlo. Roosevelt was as wickedly astute when it came to the minds of men as any philosopher, and only a fool would say otherwise. Anger can make men foolish, though. Even John wasn’t too blind to know that._

_Laszlo thumped his fist on the table, rattling John’s glass. His own lager was untouched. “He called me_ gypsy _, Moore.”_

_“Come on, man. You’re above this.”_

_“I made the challenge,” said Laszlo. “I intend to see it through.”_

 

*

 

There was little that Laszlo Kreizler set his mind to that he did not see through to its close—that much was true. In this he and Sara Howard were very much alike. John wondered what the atmosphere had been like in the protected cab of the calash on Ascension Night. Had Sara and Laszlo voiced their frustration to one another? Had they merely fumed in thick silence? Either way, all was resolved now. Or at least it would have been were John in their place. But waking up groggy and trouserless on too many occasions over the years tended to blunt the edges of one’s pride.

Laszlo, however, had never lost that brittle keenness. That was him: all sharp. He wore black exclusively, kept a beard to disguise the softness of his features. A familiar half-vexed fondness for the man tugged at John as he watched him watching the horizon. He nurtured a protective urge, as if Laszlo were an injured bird and he a kind-hearted child lining a basket with rags for a bed. It would take the thumb-screws—or more—for him to admit that aloud, though. After the long years of their bond, John knew as Lucius and Sara did not what observations were off-limits in Laszlo’s company.

_And yet…_

“Sara,” John cleared his throat, “showed me a news article.” He watched as Laszlo’s shoulders tensed and rose.

“Hardly out of your purview. Unless you’ve decided to abandon reporting for full-time detective work.”

“Society pages,” John said. “Not my specialty. It was interesting only because it mentioned you. A childhood piano recital.” He paused. “I didn’t know you played.”

Laszlo scowled. “I see no need to reveal every trivial detail of my upbringing. You and I weren’t boyhood playmates, John. We met in college.”

A good part of John wondered if Laszlo’s childhood hadn’t been mostly friendless. It was impossible to pair the pale, quiet, studious boy he imagined with games of tag or blind man’s buff. Conversely, there had rarely been moments when young John and his brother weren’t muddying their knickerbockers or releasing toads into the kitchen. “Why did you stop?”

Laszlo shot him a furious look. “Pretending to ignorance is beneath you, John.”

On the street beneath their perch, a glass bottle smashed and someone let off a high-pitched scream. It sounded like a woman, but there was a much better chance it was a boy whose voice was yet to break. John clenched his teeth and resisted the urge to look over the ledge. “You don’t need to lie to me, Laszlo,” he said. “Or to anyone. It’s already clear you’re shouldering as much of the burden in this...endeavor...as the rest.”

“ _Is_ it clear?”

“Yes! We’re only here because of your deductions. Like—” John made a sweeping gesture with his arm, struggling with the point. “Like bloody _Aristotle_ or whatnot. We’re all learning at your feet. So what difference does it make if you weren’t _born_ with a mangled arm—”

Laszlo shot to his feet, the crate toppling beside him. “It makes _all_ the God-damned difference!” He stood grasping the withered limb as though John’s observation had wounded it further. The pistol dangled by its trigger-guard from one finger.

Below, the merry screech of the accordion had stopped and all was eerily silent. In the span of a few breaths, John drew his own firearm and Laszlo adjusted his grip. Both long barrels, limned in silver, pointed toward the street.

Then a man standing in the doorway shouted back into the barroom: “Elsie from Chelsea!” A great roar went up after this, along with much banging of cutlery on cheap pint glasses, and the accordionist launched forthwith into Harry Dacre’s popular tune.

Letting out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, John relaxed his arm, dragging the back of his free hand over his perspiring upper lip. When he looked over, Laszlo still held his weapon stiffly. Although his face was half-shadowed, John saw deep lines etched into his forehead. His eyes glinted, narrow but wild.

 

*

 

_Laszlo had struggled back from the ropes and was advancing again, shaking off Roosevelt’s tidy left hook. Teddy sported the makings of a grin below the bristle of his mustaches, and jerked his chin in Laszlo’s direction, a wordless challenge._

_John swiped a hand across his face. He was pouring sweat like a fire-hose on behalf of his friend, who himself had not been in the ring long enough to work up a lather. Laszlo had come out swinging on the first bell, whereas Teddy had only to advance one step on the canvas before he was close enough to catch his opponent on the chin. Which he did, and smartly. The surrounding gang of lads howled and jostled. John had beer on his shoes._

_Laszlo Kreizler was as out-of-place inside a gymnasium as he would be in a lady’s summer hat._

_Without saying a single word to dissuade him, John had helped him to bind his knuckles_ — _the good hand and the bad, as he’d insisted upon gloves for both. The heavy padded leather dangled comically at the end of an arm as thin and gray as a consumption patient’s._

_If John looked away, he feared Roosevelt might deal Laszlo some lasting harm, but at the same time he didn’t want to watch another second._

 

*

 

“We’re all right,” John said, as much to himself as to his companion. “We’re wound up tight as clockworks after what happened to Cyrus.” Or, rather, _Laszlo_ was, but John figured it behooved him to make his statements as generous as possible. He tried a smile.

“Cyrus was assailed from behind,” Laszlo said. “Perhaps if he’d been the one holding a whisky bottle, he might have caught sight of our man’s reflection and avoided his fate.”

John had to fight to keep his jaw from dropping. Fury rose in a heat wave from his collar, making his skin tingle. He turned and stabbed a finger toward Laszlo. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

“You weren’t there. I didn’t have a drop to drink. Marcus and I did everything that we could have.” Not precisely true, but now John was on the defensive.

“Well, if the aim was to let the killer slip, perhaps I was invited along this time because I can fail just as admirably in running him down.”

John wanted to throw the revolver down, catch Laszlo by the lapels and give him a good teeth-rattling shake. Instead he hissed and pressed his fingernails into his palm until it hurt. “You let one man beat you down and now you have it out for _all_ men. Is that it?”

Laszlo’s scoff was maddening. “You think Teddy beat me down?”

 

*

 

_Roosevelt was strutting_ — _presenting with his broad upper body and straining biceps the very picture of American masculinity._

_If one looked past the defect, John noted, Laszlo was no sunken-chested weakling, either. His good arm was well enough muscled, his shoulders square and their span something of which another man of his same stature would have been perfectly proud. There was even markedly more hair—and darker—over Laszlo’s breastbone than Teddy’s, and both men were trim-waisted without an extra ounce of weight around the middle._

_But for all his pluck, Laszlo had no guard to speak of. He tried a decent enough jab, but without the rear hand, Teddy blocked with ease and landed another solid thump on Laszlo’s cheek. He stumbled._

_The onlookers gasped as one. John sighed._

 

*

 

“Not Teddy,” John said. He held his tongue for a moment more as Laszlo waited. Even when the words came they were barely audible above the din from underneath. “Your father.” John felt his every muscle tense, preparing himself should Laszlo charge him or take a swing.

Instead, he stayed rooted to the spot, quivering, undisguised menace on his face. In his black jacket, one shoulder padded out, Laszlo looked for all the world like a cat with its hackles raised. “What poison has Sara been dripping in your ear?” His voice was guttural, dangerous.

“What she’s been doing is drawing conclusions from evidence,” John said. “Exactly as you taught her. You can’t give fire to Polyphemus then punish him when he gives it to mankind.”

“Prometheus, you drink-addled clod.”

John threw up his hands, the revolver swinging dangerously. “Who in Hell cares?” If they were making a racket above the disorderly house, it was coming up on well past reining it in. “That wasn’t even—I meant to say—” John hissed in frustration. “The point is, Sara caught you out. She turned the mirror on you for once, Laszlo. And you don’t like what you see.”

 

*

 

_“You’re pulling your punches!” Laszlo shouted at Teddy. He shuffle-jogged for a moment or two, stretching his neck, then spat onto the scuffed white canvas. The saliva was tinted pink. One could squint one’s eyes and believe for a moment he was a true pugilist as rage made him forget disadvantage. He snarled. “_ Coward _.”_

 

*

 

“She called me a coward,” Laszlo said, in his voice the same affront with which he’d relayed to John Teddy’s long-ago insult to his parentage. “As if she could know—”

“No,” John countered, “she wouldn’t know. Sara is one of the bravest people I’ve met, man or woman.”

Laszlo’s eyes had gone slightly unfocused. “I suppose she told you I struck her.”

Confused, John stepped back a pace. “Of _course_ not. _That_ would be cowardly. Never mind...a lie!” He’d taken a breath to speak again when he saw that Laszlo was looking out toward the bridge again, his shoulders slumped. “Unless…”

Laszlo set his mouth into a hard line, still looking away.

“You _didn’t._ ”

“I...lost control.”

John was sure his mind was reeling more thoroughly than Cyrus’s after his skull-bashing. “Who are you? What have you become?” He took a step toward Laszlo, who shied away. “Whether it’s this case or not, you’re turning into someone I don’t recognize.”

“She said nothing?” Laszlo asked.

“Not a word to me.” John sniffed, disgusted. “Though if I’d been in her shoes, I’d have drawn that hand-held cannon she carries and put a bullet between your eyes.”

“The possibility occurred to me,” Laszlo said. “Perhaps it would have been better if she had.”

“She admires you.”

“Perhaps once she did,” Laszlo said. “It appears I’m losing admirers on all sides of late.” He shrugged, the cast of his face almost histrionic.

John sighed, some of his pique dissolving. “And self-pity will lose you the remainder.” He drew out his pocket watch. “Come on, Laszlo. It’s almost one o’clock and no alarms have been raised. We’ll go back to Number 808, try again tomorrow night.”

Laszlo’s shoulders drooped further; John was certain he was near to giving in.

Then he straightened up and raised his chin. “Go, if you feel the need to. Or perhaps you misapprehend the need for your cigarettes and swill.”

Already drawn tight from the night’s bickering, John felt something give inside his head with the pop of a releasing knuckle joint. He delivered a savage kick to the milk crate, sending it clattering off across the tarred rooftop and clanging against a bent chimney-pipe. A trio of resting birds burst from hiding and rose, circling and crying indignation.

“Damn you, Laszlo!” John shouted. “At least my vices are simple. Predictable. I know just what to expect after a night of lushing. As _your_ pastime happens to be digging into the mind of a monster who slices up young boys for sport, I don’t think you can know what manner of dark things will have latched onto you before you come out. Or if you won’t come out at all.”

“I’ve dealt with horror before, John,” Laszlo said. His voice was wavering, going in and out like a poor wireless signal. “In the streets, the courts, the prisons and madhouses.” He seemed to have lost interest what he was saying, moving on to other thoughts before the words he spoke left his mouth. “It hasn’t broken me yet.”

 

*

 

_Teddy was visibly dumbfounded. The brief lapse in attention due to pure shock gave Laszlo his opportunity._

_He stepped in at once, the leather sole of his shoe slapping down hard, and put almost all of his body’s momentum into a right jab aimed at Teddy’s slack mouth. It connected true as a hammer-blow. Teddy’s head snapped back. Blinking, he retreated a step or two. When he tilted his head forward again, twin streams of blood ran from his nostrils. He caught them in the hollow of his left-hand glove._

_The group of bystanders exploded in whoops and jeers. This time, John did, too, yelling and pumping his fist in the air._

_Teddy’s voice came out stifled. “You little…”_

_Laszlo’s grin was taunting, wicked. But the brief victory had made him fatally confident. He swung again, but instead of blocking, Teddy sidestepped him. Before Laszlo could recover from his overreach, Teddy came back around with a haymaker that not only blinkered him when it hit but spun him ‘round nearly three hundred sixty degrees before laying him out flat on the mat._

 

*

 

John ran a hand through his hair. The pomade had long since melted and oily locks flopped onto his brow. “I hope so. I truly do. Because if you go in too far, I’m afraid I won’t be able to pull you out.”

Laszlo’s sneer was an ugly thing. “Is that what you told your brother?”

A red haze dropped abruptly over John’s eyes, turning the night bloody. He felt some animal sound building within him. Then for a split second he went blind. When his vision cleared, Laszlo was skidding backward, arms pinwheeling.

Laszlo fell hard on his backside and slid, accompanied by the sound of fine worsted wool ripping, the lame arm crumpling when he tried to slow himself. He let out a yelp of pain that clutched at John’s heart as surely as if a physical hand had slipped beyond his ribs.

John swore, using a word reserved for the lowest of company.

Laszlo had come to his feet in the meantime, much more spry than he had been after Roosevelt’s dizzying blow.

At least John had only shoved him.

However, he was cradling his bad arm, looking at it—as he often did—as though it were an inanimate thing stitched cruelly to his living body.

Stinging with shame, John advanced. “Is it—?” Any further words were knocked from his mouth, along with a spray of spittle, when Laszlo struck out with his fist and caught John along his cheekbone. With a starburst still in his vision, John had quite finished with delicacy. He hauled back at once and drove his knuckles into Laszlo’s face, feeling skin give way underneath.

Laszlo clutched at his mouth, blood beginning to pour through his fingers. The sound he attempted might have been laughter.

John shook his stinging hand, loosing a droplet of blood that sailed over the lip of the roof and into darkness. “You can go to Hell, then,” he said, “since that is where you insist on putting yourself.”

Laszlo looked up at him with reddened eyes. As his hand remained cupped over his lips and chin, collecting blood, there was no discerning his emotion.

John shook his head. “You want the people to know your work, and they do. Most anyone of influence in the city knows your name. But no one knows _you_. You won’t allow it. Not that the imbeciles among us haven’t tried. You’ll find out soon enough that your _theories_ and your _monographs_ make for poor company, Laszlo. You can call out to them, but all you’ll get in return are your own empty thoughts. And as far as I’m concerned, you can take them and rot.” He turned on his heel and walked away, descending the rattling fire-ladder without another look. If Laszlo said anything more, he didn’t hear it.

 

*

 

At his grandmother’s home, John burned through all of his remaining cigarettes, sitting at his writing-table by an open window and lighting each smoke from the end of the last. He had poured a glass of good highland whisky, but merely the loamy smell of it turned his stomach.

Long after he remembered stubbing out the last cigarette, he was awoken by dawn and vigorous birdsong from the garden. He had fallen asleep over his leather desk blotter, head half-pillowed on his forearm. The prickle of returning blood flow made him wince.

All at once, the staccato rap of the brass door-knocker sounded from downstairs. It jolted him so violently that he accidentally swept the still-brimming crystal tumbler from the tabletop. With senses assaulted by the scent of the spilled liquor, John rose and left the room. He cast a glance down the hall toward his grandmother’s rooms before remembering she’d been away for two days, visiting friends in Poughkeepsie.

His boot-soles, still lumpy from the tar-paper on the tenement roof, thumped on each stair.

On the stoop stood Stevie Taggert, breathless, dressed for the mild weather but with red cheeks befitting a colder day. He doffed his cap. “Mr. Moore, is the Doctor here?”

John scrubbed at his gritty eyes. “No, he isn’t.”

“You see, sir, he didn’t come back last night.”

Annoyed, John squinted, purposely tamping down his rising concern. “He’s likely at Number 808. He’ll be home in good time. You’re not the man’s keeper, Stevie.”

“Ah, you see, sir, Cyrus checked there. And with the Detective Sergeants. Not them nor Miss Howard has seen him.”

The panic John had attempted to stave off boiled up. He felt painfully awake, his stiff joints complaining and the new daylight harsh in his eyes. “Damn it,” he muttered, then nodded, following Stevie down the front steps. Late spring was exuberant in the city, with trees in full leaf and the smell of baking bread overtaking the stench of manure. But to John, the carriage ride south from Houston to Bowery to Delancey was gray with dread.

The doors of the disorderly house were shut up now, and not a single remaining drunkard was feeling his oats on the cobbles outside. Stepping down from Laszlo’s sleek black calash, John peered up at the rooftop but saw nothing.

As he surmounted the fire-ladder, though, he caught sight of a huddled form perched once again on the crate by the cold chimney pipe, his own sack coat draped over its shoulders. He sighed relief, which still warred with aggravation inside him.

Laszlo half-turned when he heard footsteps. “Oh,” he said. “John.” Up close, the man looked a caricature of a prizefighter rather than an esteemed alienist. His eyes were puffy and red all ‘round. The point at which John’s knuckle had split his lower lip was crusted over black. His beard was full of blood and a good deal of it lay tacky and dried down his lapels.

“You’re a sorry sight,” John said, and placed his hand gently on Laszlo’s shoulder.

Silent, Laszlo inclined his head and rested it against John’s forearm, his long hair mussed.

“Come on, then,” John told him.

“Christ, I’m a fool,” said Laszlo. The swollen lip deformed his words. “I’m more a fool than you could know.”

There, again, that unbidden tide of fondness inside John’s chest. It was as simple as all of his other feelings toward his old friend were complex. John despaired of ever knowing the reason. “Doubtful,” he said. “I’ve had a good long time to cotton on to how much of a fool you are.” He brushed fingertips through the very ends of Laszlo’s hair, but stopped short of stroking it. “Let’s get you off this roof.”

 

*

 

_A deathly hush fell over the assembled crowd. All of them—John included—craned their necks to peer into the ring where Laszlo lay insensate. Then, after a moment, his brow creased and following that he opened his eyes. They were crossed toward the bridge of his strong nose, but a blink or two brought focus back. He made a weak noise and then looked up at Teddy, who had lowered his fists and was studying his opponent with the same horror and anticipation as the rest of them._

_Then Laszlo narrowed his eyes and fairly growled._

_Teddy’s eyes went wide and his jaw quivered for a split second. Then he erupted into laughter. It was loud in the silence of the gymnasium._

_Laszlo raised his head, only to let it thump back against the canvas. Defying all expectation, a grin split his face. In no more than a moment or two, he was laughing, as well, the great heaving of his chest moving him bit by bit along the mat._

_To a man, their audience burst into raucous cheers._

_Teddy had unlaced one glove and pulled it off using his teeth. He extended his wrapped hand downward._

_Laszlo took it and allowed himself to be hauled to unsteady feet._

_A mirthful Teddy very nearly put him off balance again with a slap to his back, but Laszlo slung an arm around the bigger man’s shoulder to keep himself upright._

_“Bully, old boy!” Teddy thumped Laszlo’s chest. “Good show! Say, I’m sorry for what I said. Not sporting at all. Unlike you! Bravo!”_

_Laszlo tried to speak, coughed, then tried again. “Indeed. My apologies, Roosevelt. Your views are your own.”_

_“Please, my good man. Call me ‘Teddy.’ You’ve earned it.” In a gesture of purest generosity, Teddy grasped Laszlo’s wrist and raised his arm high as if awarding him the win._

_Those standing around the ring clapped and stomped, some of them ducking below the ropes to slap both men’s bare backs and chests in congratulation._

_John felt such relief his knees wobbled. After a moment, he put two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly along with the crowd._

_Laszlo’s eye had begun to swell and turn purple._

_Teddy swabbed sticky blood away from his mustaches with the cotton bandages. ‘A clean-up is in order,” he announced. “Then a round for everyone. On me!’_

 

*

 

Stevie’s eyes nearly popped from his skull when he caught sight of the state of his employer, but John’s look shut him up. He cracked the reins smartly against the haunches of Frederick, the black gelding, who took off at a fresh clip down the avenue.

“We’ll get you home and settled,” John told Laszlo, resisting the urge to grasp his hand as he sat slumped against the leather seat-back.

Laszlo started, a brief convulsion. “No! No. Not there. I—” he settled down again, defeated. “I’d rather not give Mary cause to worry.”

John nodded. He called up to the carriage’s seat. “Stevie, if you will, take us to my grandmother’s.”

The boy was loath to drive away when they reached their destination, but John assured him the Doctor rested in good hands. Never had he been more grateful for his grandmother’s absence as he helped Laszlo up the stairs. He rested in the spare bedroom as John heated water on the stove-top.

Though it was obviously painful, Laszlo pressed the warm, wet cloth to his face with gratitude, allowing the softening clots of blood to drip through his beard into a ceramic bowl. Soon enough, he was able to walk to the washstand to rinse the remaining blood from his face and neck. Before he did so, John convinced him to give over his jacket, waistcoat, and shirt for cleaning. As they were dark colored, he figured they might be salvaged. The bloodied necktie, however, went right in the waste bin.

Laszlo was dabbing at his face gingerly with a clean towel when John returned to the room.

It struck John as the first time in many years he had seen his friend less than fully dressed. The weak arm seemed not in as dire condition as he remembered, the skin flushed and healthy looking though the limb was thin.

Laszlo requested carbolic for the split in his lip, which looked too small to have produced such a volume of blood. But all John had on hand was a tincture of silver nitrate, which Laszlo found good enough.

He gave mumbling protests to being settled onto the bed for a few hours’ rest, although it was something his body clearly needed. As proof, his eyelids fluttered closed within a few seconds after lying down.

As quietly as he could, John tidied the washstand, scrubbing it down with the cleaner towel then disposing of both cloths. Grandmother had enough linens that she would hardly notice the absence.

Having dragged his own tired bones upstairs again, John stopped short in the guest room doorway in a sort of mild wonderment. Laszlo lay curled with knees tucked to his chest—looking impossibly young but for the thick, dark hair on his cheeks and chin. He did not move or protest when John, shed of his waistcoat and boots, lay down beside him.

Laszlo’s skin smelled faintly of hair oil and sweat, not unpleasant. Moving with slow intent, John placed his hand just above Laszlo’s waist, finding the skin soft and yielding. It flexed with his rhythmic breaths. John himself barely dared breathe. For no reason he could name, he craned forward a bit to press his lips softly to the base of Laszlo’s neck, a hidden place bared by the fall of his hair, just so.

Laszlo made a sound, muttered something. It might have been, “Thank you.”

But if it hadn’t been, John found he didn’t much care.


End file.
